Last night, I found myself pulled into a debate about the Aziz Ansari episode, as a friend of mine related a personal anecdote of mine on a group forum.

“Why didn’t she just do x?” “Why didn’t she just do y?” “Why didn’t she just say no?” The ladies on the thread wondered, questioning the legitimacy of my experience: one that many women have had.

So I took it upon myself to get on the thread and explain. I didn’t accuse, I didn’t get angry, I didn’t hurl around labels. At the end, the ladies came around and understood. It is sadly one of the only times that has ever happened to me.

The problem with labels we use today is that they’re loaded. Rapist, abuser, sexual predator: all these are very powerful and heavy-handed words. As they should be. It is crimes like the horrific Nirbhaya case and the countless other violent and cruel crimes that need these words. Such atrocities against human being and children, most often but certainly not limited to the female gender, need extreme language and clearly definitions.

But what about the large grey area?

Let’s say it is someone you know. Let’s say its a situation you are comfortable with at first, but then become uncomfortable? And the other person in the heat of the moment does not realise? Let’s say you panic and you freeze and cannot communicate your wish for things to stop? Let’s say the other person misinterprets your hesitation as something else?

What then?

According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN) 7 out of 10 perpetrators of sexual violence are known to the victim. In grey area cases like these, again, there is likely familiarity with someone before an incident or a series of incidents happen.

Most physical intimacy, and the vulnerability that comes with it, is not discussed, it is felt on vibes, and chemistry and body language. People generally don’t sit down and talk about doing something before they engage in it, or make you sign a waiver form that you are okay with what’s happening. At least to my albeit limited, knowledge.

So we go back to the question: why didn’t you just do x, y or z?

Why didn’t I? Because I panicked, and I couldn’t speak. Because the words didn’t come out of my mouth. Because I tried to say it, but he wasn’t listening or paying attention.

When I slap a label of sexual assault on it, it becomes something else altogether, something outside of me, something that exists there in the world with a label.

I don’t want to do that. I don’t think it’s helpful. All it succeeds in doing is making the other person into a villain, and me a helpless victim. I don’t want to be someone that something happened to. That does not move us forward.

I read the whole description of what Aziz Ansari did to Grace. It disgusted me, yes. It is definitely not right, yes. But I also get the sense that Ansari, from his responses and his behaviour does not actually realise how wrong what he’s doing is. And can we blame him?

We haven’t taught our sons and daughters or our brothers and sisters how to chart these waters. Our definition of “normal” is seriously screwed up. There’s a great article that talks about this here.

What I want to talk about is developing a language for what happened to Grace, and what has happened to so many others. Lets stay away from the explosive terminology that turns these men into monsters, because it doesn’t help them understand the problem, and it has a tendency to split people into two camps: first camp that sees the men as evil, and the second camp that picks apart the women’s behaviour, and hints that their complaints are not genuine.

Read any comments section of any article discussing this issue. Most people blame Grace for not getting it. But I think that’s the point:

How do we educate an Ansari to know when he crosses the line? How do we enable a Grace to communicate that effectively without using those terms that we love to throw around these days? How do we move this past blame and into something that can help us do better or react better?

I don’t want to take the blame when someone crosses the line with me. I want to be able to talk about it without a million people telling me what I should have done better. It makes me feel like I’m the problem.

That said, I don’t want to call the person who crosses the line a rapist or an abuser because it doesn’t really solve anything and gets everyone’s back up about fake complaints and whether or not something counts as abuse. I’m sick of this taking sides. It helps no-one and just results in a lot of name calling in comments sections across the internet.

Let us move away from definitions now. They have their purpose for the Nirbhayas of this world. But for those of us who find ourselves in trickier more nuanced places, perhaps we should be looking at how we create a safe space to communicate as much, rather than simply looking for a name for what has happened to us.

While there will be some who don’t respect that safe space, in spite of all you’ve done to create it, it should move us forward at least a little bit, shouldn’t it?

What happened to Grace is wrong. But the superficial conversation is only a bandaid. It’s time to actually heal the wound.

It’s a four hour drive to Kumarakom, a sleepy little town by the backwaters, dominated by resorts. Kottayam is a short distance away, and there is apparently some sightseeing to be done there.

The roads of Kottayam remind me of Goa, low-rise colourful houses, with wide fields lined with rice patties, and peppered with clumps of coconut and palm trees. Gates are flat, as security is not a concern here.

There are small eateries lining marketplaces, with mom and pop shops of all varieties.

Thursday January 11, 2018 is going to be forever etched in my mind, as the way I got rid of my driver.

That’s right. Finally.

Having had one day completely free, because I moved around Thekkady on foot, I had asked him to be ready at 8 am, but I ran late, and at 8:40 am, as soon as he saw me, he went for breakfast.

I’m annoyed because I had told him to be ready. 5-10 minutes is fine, but I wait almost 20 minutes for him to return.

As a result, I finally request them to change it, and they do. By the end of the day, my angry driver is back in Kochi, and a new one will arrive Saturday morning to take me on the final leg of my journey.

Kumarakom is super relaxing. In fact: it’s too relaxing. I try to see if I can use the afternoon productively, but apparently it is too late to do any tours, and too hot to walk anywhere outside, and the only activity, besides a free boat ride at 5pm, is Ayurvedic massage. It’s too bad because the grounds are beautiful.

I am hyper to do something to make the most of my time here, so I make an appointment for the shortest massage – so that I have time to make it to the free boat cruise later.

The masseuse has no bedside manners. She looks at me with almost contempt, as she makes me undress in front of her and insists on putting on the temporary underwear herself, almost violating me in the process.

I close my eyes and squeeze them shut while she kneads my skin so roughly, I’m afraid it might chafe right off. It is a tense, and angst-inducing experience, nothing in comparison to what I think a massage should be.

As someone who already is not a huge fan of massages, I think to myself there must be health benefits, and to be honest yes by the end, I do feel slightly more relaxed, though arguably this could be because the ordeal is over.

I make my way towards the dock for the hotel boat cruise. It is while on the water, that I really start to appreciate traveling solo. All the groups on board are running from one end to the other in order to catch the perfect selfie.

It sounds like a very stressful way to spend the cruise, looking for the perfect angle, the perfect shot. Instead, I lean against the railing, and stare out at the water and the setting sun.

In spite of my feeble attempt above, no camera, no paintbrush, no pen, can capture this beauty. It is beyond human expression or creativity, and the best way to enjoy it is in silence. And I certainly don’t want to ruin a photograph of such perfection with my own image superimposed.

There is a contentment here that I can’t explain, it’s like it’s just me, and miles and miles of water, and the silence that exists between us. For now I’m okay to slow it down, and accept the emptiness of my hours. For now, I let go of the hang up of being productive. For now, far away from strange Ayurvedic masseuses, angry drivers and slow customer service, I find peace.

I hear a lot about a Thekkady-based joint called Grandma’s Cafe, so on my second (and last) evening there, I finally decide to give it a try.

This place is an institution, and is known for it’s mix of Continental, non-Kerala Indian, and Kerala cuisine, and being a favourite of travellers. I found it in my Lonely Planet guide book and on Tripadvisor, where there seemed to be a rather lively debate on whether they serve beer.

They do serve beer. But that is not the only, or most important reason you should go.

As I write this, I have yet to travel to Kochi, but I have to say that Grandma’s was the best meal I had in Kerala.

Although there appears to be a door, you have to enter through a narrow alley on the side. There is what appears to be patio-style seating, with stones scattered underfoot. The tables and chairs are wooden with flat cushions for customer comfort.

A sewing machine sits in one corner, and most of the wall has been converted into a chalk board, with messages from the patrons. Many of the early diners are alone, or in pairs. Tube lights and whirring fans hang from the ceiling, and the Black-Eyed Peas are playing in the background. It is perfection.

Beer isn’t on the menu, but like I said they do serve it. You just have to ask. You will only get a big bottle of Kingfisher, no small bottles, and from what I could see, nothing else. Though I’m not much of a Kingfisher drinker, it sort of goes with the whole vibe of the place, and I found myself really enjoying it.

What is on the menu, is hangover recovery tips, and a rather stern reminder to customers not to steal the menu. If it’s that important to us, they are happy to provide us with an alternate solution.

The place smells deliciously of coconut milk simmering and spices. I order the Travancore mutta curry and the Mushroom ularthiyathu (someone from Kerala please help me pronounce this word!) with plain white rice.

The food is delicious, though I cannot finish the white rice, which leads to an admonishing look from the server. I glance guiltily back at my Kingfisher that I do finish.

As I pay my bill and rise to leave, I know I would want to come back to Thekkady, just to eat at this place. Everything was absolutely perfect. Till next time Grandma

The kalaripayattu performance that follows the kathakali is nothing short of spectacular. The practitioners move like dancers, their bodies a combination of ridiculous strength and flexibility.

Kalaripayattu is an ancient martial art that originated in Kerala, with roots that date back to the Sangam period literature (3rd century BC – 2nd century AD). Every soldier during this period received regular military training. It takes elements from yoga, dance and performing arts, which are visible in today’s performance.

This performance is in a different part of the Centre, and I’ve misplaced my ticket and have no idea what my seat number is. Fortunately one of the young boys that works at the theatre, recognizes me and darts over to the ticket booth to find out. Finally I am seated, and the show begins.

We are sitting in the same red plastic chairs, around a giant pit, with a stairwell. There are candles across the front of the pit, and weapons laid along the side.

The practitioners perform demonstrations with a variety of weapons, and in some cases without them. They show us ridiculous feats, be it sparring, jumping through rings of fire, performing complicated gymnastics, backbends, yoga: you name it, they can make their body do it.

At one point during the performance, they call for a volunteer from the audience. The make them get into a child’s pose like position, along with one of the other performers. They perform flying leaps over both people.

Then they call another volunteer. After that round is over they call another. And then another. By the end of this exercise they are running and leaping over 8 people all in a row.

Embarrassingly one of the audience participants has such loose jeans on that when he bends down, half of his buttocks show, which is extremely distracting, and I imagine, quite uncomfortable for the left side of the audience but he manages to pull them up in between.

It is exactly the type of horror I felt, when one day my little brother banged on my door first thing in the morning, and summoned me into his room, with his girlfriend at the time looking on. When I walked into the room he mooned me. That Image is forever etched in my brain.

The performers are a tad cheeky, and endearingly so, demanding that we clap and cheer louder and louder. Once I’ve gotten over my things-i-cannot-unsee I join back in, marvelling at their strength and confidence.

Witnessing this ancient art gives you such an appreciation for what the body is capable of. We use so little of this miracle that is our mass of muscles, ligaments, bones and tissues. It’s amazing to see it at work like this.

I leave Old Mudra fully entertained, the first whispers of hunger starting to grumble in my belly.

Although I had originally planned to see the Kathakali performance in Kumarakom, I find out that it’s difficult to organise, or at least my hotel says so. Fortunately I have the evening free in Thekkady, so I decide that I might as well.

I glance in my guide book, and it recommends the Mudra Cultural Centre. I type in the URL and check – the show timings are still 5pm and 7:15 for Kathakali, and 6pm and 7:15 for kalarippayat, the traditional Kerala martial art. I call them and reserve tickets for the early shows for both performances. At about 4:10 I plug “Mudra Cultural Centre” into google and start following the directions. Everywhere I go in Thekkady ends up in the vicinity of the infamous Bus Stand for the Periyar park.

I stop to ask some people standing about the Mudra Cultural Centre. A third man appears from nowhere and starts telling me something unintelligible about boating. I try to walk away, but he persists.

I turn and tell him I am going for Kathakali not for boating. He starts motioning me to come back and discuss my plans with him when I snap that I’ve already bought tickets. He asks where and I tell him Mudra, and turn and walk away.

“Old Mudra or New Mudra?” He calls.

“I’ve already spoken to the guy I don’t need help,” I call back.

Perhaps I’m hasty, but the Delhi girl in me is suspicious of over helpful strangers and their agenda. It could be the guy was just trying to help.

And so it comes to pass. I arrive at Old Mudra, having booked tickets at New Mudra. The guy shows me that although the names are the same, “New Mudra” uses a slightly ornate font, that outside the theatre is more like Comic Sans MS.

Attention to detail is everything people.

(Also somebody remind me to write to Lonely Planet).

Incidentally the information given in the guide book all refers to New Mudra, while Old Mudra gleefully plasters “recommended by lonely planet and tripadvisor” on its brochure.

I take a breath and wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

I enter the auditorium, a no-frills large room filled with red plastic chairs, seat numbers marked on the back by paintbrush. The curtains are orange with black paisley on them, translucent and revealing bars on the window outside.

A concrete stage stands in front. On it, a man sits cross-legged, lunghi resting on his calves, face already adorned with paper semicircles above his jaw line, and shades of black and yellow. Right now he is painting his lips orange.

A few people wander around him, one of them another performer, and the other two musicians. A pile of woven sacks sits on a stool at the back. I wonder what it is for.

The audience is largely empty except for me and one couple, though eventually people start to trickle in. Suddenly I look back and his lips have gone pink, and he is touching up the green on his face. He stands finally, makeup ritual completed, and the musician who also doubles as the MC, rolls up the mat.

I get distracted, and suddenly look back to find him fastening a blue salwar all the way up across his chest bone (for those of you familiar with the show Family Matters, think Steve Urkel). He fastens anklets, and bells around his knees. He does an elaborate exercise with a black fabric of some length, rolling up the woven sacks to help create body beneath his skirts.

A family of four comes and sits in row in front of me. A rather disruptive couple comes next to me knocking a chair into the row in front. The whole family of four looks daggers at them

Meanwhile, they are wrapping cloth around the sacks. Finally he puts on green shirt and red one over it. I am trying to pay attention but the couple next to me is chattering away, blissfully unaware of my ADD problem.

Finally the MC begins to speak. Kathakali is a dance performed in heaven, whether metaphorical or not, he does not say. The makeup is created by mixing dyes that you find in nature and through natural sources, as is the glue that fastens the paper to the performers face.

By this point, there are about 22 people or so in the audience. The word Katha means story, and Kali means dance, so the word directly translated means “story-dance.”

He explains the names of the instruments. I can’t hear them, but they are majorly percussive. The sharpness of the miniature cymbal-type affair, overlays the drum beat, and the whole thing is enhanced by the singing of one of the performers.

The story is told by the singer, but none of the characters sing. They use a combination of mudras, actions, facial and eye movements to communicate story.

Eyes exercise are important. The performer onstage, a different one from the one who was doing his makeup earlier, demonstrates by moving his eyes round and round, side to side, and up and down, all while keeping the beat of the percussion band.

It’s not just eye fluidity, you need strong cheek and facial muscles – and he demonstrates the various types of movements much to our amusement, going impressively quickly.

He demonstrates reactions of love and hate, anger, sadness, shyness. What’s amazing is that it makes so much more sense. These expressions are so exaggerated they’re entertaining!

To be honest, until this moment, the kathakali is a bit of an obligatory tourist thing for me, I don’t expect to actually enjoy it as much as I did. But having 45 minutes of demonstration and interactivity (he called a few volunteers up) makes all the difference. The performer, especially the one doing the demonstration, was animated, and interacted well with his audience. He really showed us how the various types of expression can mean different things. For the first time, I learned to truly see dance as a language.

The story they presented was Narakasuravadham [murder of Narakasuara]. Basically Nakrathundi, the maidservant (? What does she do? Clean the house? Dust his fans? I need to brush up on my Hindu mythology!) of demon king Narakasura, goes to heaven to kidnap a few beautiful ladies for her boss’s enjoyment. There she find Jayantha, son of lord Indra.

She is filled with desire for him because he is, well obviously very handsome and all, so she transforms herself into Lalitha, a beautiful woman, in order to ensnare him.

I have to wonder what Nakrathundi’s long term plan is here, it sounds like an already terrible romantic comedy gone wrong.

Lalitha/Nakrathundi makes her move, and Jayantha asks Her to reveal her identity. She responds that she is a heavenly beauty and tries to seduce him, but Jayantha is a good boy and will only get married with his fathers permission. Lalitha/Nakrathundi responds by continuing to try to embrace him with, as the program describes “her lustful desires.”

At this point I have to stop and say, I feel like many women I know at least, present company included, would identify *much more* with Jayantha than with Lalitha/Nakrathundi at this point.

Anyhow, like anyone would, Jayantha gets fed up, and orders her to leave, which of course she doesn’t. Instead she reveals her true form, tells him she has come to kidnap him, which has never really worked out well for any situation of unrequited love, but alas she goes ahead with it. She tries to catch him, and he (really pissed right now), cuts off her ear, nose and breasts. She screams in pain and returns to Narakasura, while Jayantha relates the incident to his father.

Just FYI, I got all this from the pamphlet, it’s not like I’m such an expert at Kathakali that I got all this while watching my first performance! But following along, once you understood the types of gestures they made, the whole thing made much more sense.

I still don’t know if Old Mudra or New Mudra is better. But I left the performance really glad that I had made the effort.

The Thekkady tribal dance performance takes place in a small auditorium, not far from the Periyar Reserve bus stand, across from the Bamboo Grove.

I walk into a dusty darkened room, with a few rows of wooden chairs. The door is open, and people are either fanning themselves or swatting at mosquitoes, or in some cases both. A red light glows behind the curtain. A rhythmic drumming emerges from behind the curtain. The door shuts at some point, eliciting loud protests from the increasingly claustrophobic audience. There is apparently a power cut, and this is the reason why they are unable to turn on lights or fan.

Sure enough though, the fans do come to life. A narrator tells us there are six ethnic tribal groups in Periyar. The group whose traditions are being presented is called the Mannans.

I’ve always found Indian tribal cultures fascinating. In Odisha, where my mother is from, I traveled to Sundergarh, and then to the very edge of the Odisha-Chhatisgarh border. The tribes there are so well-versed in the ways of the wild, that they will never go hungry. They understand how to live off the forests.

Likewise, many of those working in Periyar, including some of the guides and the fishermen, and the people who come gather fruit, are tribals. They have an acute sense of the jungle, and how to protect themselves from the elements of the wild.

I don’t know much about Indian tribal communities, but I know that they have a very special relationship with nature, one that most of us that live in cities, cannot begin to imagine. I find it inspiring.

This particularly series of dances is performed by men, and during a particular festival (the name of which was completely lost on me.) They named the percussive instruments, but those were also lost on me. These dances are performed during a certain time or day in traditional Mannan community.

The performers are topless, wearing skirts with trims of leaves, bodies decorated with paint. Their movements are fluid, graceful and beautiful. The stage is set to appear like a tribal village, with huts flanking the performers on either side, and a backdrop of forest.

The lighting is almost completely red, though I am not sure what the inspiration behind that artistic choice was. Musicians were placed towards the back of the stage, behind where the performers danced.

The first dance is a prayer to the mountain Gods, the second invites their exalted ancestors to join them, and the third signifies the organic relationship between man and nature in terms of agriculture, praying for the harvest.

The fourth, is the one I find the most interesting, and not only because it is the only one that is performed with a woman. It is because it marks merriment over all the good things in life, and all of God’s blessings. It celebrates all the good things that we have in our lives.

How many of us do this on a regular basis? I do not, unless prompted. This is why I find it beautiful, and inspiring, and resolve to do more of it in the future.

They actually invite some members of the audience to join them for this dance. A few tourists go up, and dance with them sportingly.

The fifth dance is about hunting, and is performed with bows and arrows, while the sixth one, I believe gives prayers for everyone there. Actually by that point, to be perfectly frank, I was really starving, and tuned out during the announcement.

As we file out into the chill of the night, after taking the obligatory photos with the performers, I get to thinking about how one country can have such a vast variety of different cultures, and how this is something I wouldn’t have a chance to see anywhere else in the country – only right here, in this moment.

Unfortunately my over-philosophical musings are interrupted by my taxi driver who is stopped in the road near the bus stand. He asks where I was and grumbles something about being worried, and so I reluctantly allow him to take me to the cafe I have selected for dinner.

Although I had hoped for the rest of the day without him, I sigh, remembering to be thankful for the good things in my life. The opportunity to be here, and to witness this performance, was definitely one of them.

I arrive at the ecotourism office just before 1:30 pm, much to the chagrin of my driver, who makes it clear that he disapproves of my sightseeing priorities.

It has been a bumpy morning for us, as I have taken to ignoring his destination suggestions. A short while later he tells me that the two British friends who had come sightseeing with me the day before, were not allowed in the car. Nobody was allowed in the car except me.

I have realized by this point, that my driver is somewhat controlling, and while there may be such a rule, he is exaggerating it.

In response, I get on the phone and loudly tell my travel agent that if nobody else is allowed in the car I may cancel the cab early. This silences him for the moment.I ask the lady at the ecotourism office about the various packages. There are two people waiting for a third to join them for the park nature walk.

Although it sounds like e a little bit of a boring activity, I call the couple, and they arrive at the office within a few minutes.

As it turns out, we have to be at the bus stand in 20 minutes, and so I rush to my hotel, hurriedly check in and change and am heading out, when I decide to swallow my pride and take the stupid taxi to the bus stand. It is only a 10-15 minute walk but I don’t have enough time.

My driver screws up his face as he moves the car towards my destination and asks why I want to go there. I tell him, quite simply, that I need to take a bus.

He asks, probably for the third or fourth time if I’m going boating, and I say no. He asks how much it costs. Knowing his angle, I feign ignorance, and tell him I got it as part of a package. Frustrated he goes silent again.

We board the bus, and I chat with a girl named Angie (who has been to India 6-7 times already, but never to Kerala). She’s from Pasadena, and I have relatives there so we bond over that and she tells me of her own strange experiences of being a foreigner in India.

We reach the park and part ways, as she is going boating. We meet Suresh, who is to guide us through the walk. Suresh is quiet serious man, who has low tolerance for nonsense.

At this point, the husband asks Suresh “is it safe?”

He gets a mischievous smile on his face and says “well anything may happen.”

The husband looks mildly panicked and goes quiet. The couple asks me to take a photo of them. I do it innocently enough, not realising what I’m in for.

Finally we get up and head across and metal bridge towards the shoreline of the water, separating forest from park entrance.

We don life jackets, and I’m about to walk towards the raft, when the husband hands me the camera, asks me to wait on the shore and take a photo of them on the boat.

This brings our walk to a standstill, as neither Suresh can board the raft, nor can the small group behind me.

We start walking along the water, feeling the remnants of the afternoon heat burning down on our skin.

The couple appear to have a two minute interval for photos, as they keep pausing. They are keen to see elephants; there are no tigers in this part of the park unfortunately, as Suresh explains.

The couple are young, rather cute, and newlyweds from what I’m guessing. It must be one of their first major trips away from home.

Unfortunately, the charm of this is lost on Suresh, as he all but rolls his eyes when we stop so one or both of them can pose, or so that he or I might click their photo.

He later tells me, “next time you come alone.”

It cools down after we get off the waters edge. Suresh walks straight ahead, with the swagger of someone who knows these jungles inside out. Dragonflies buzzes around us, painting invisible circles in the air.

The couple are excited at the prospect of seeing an elephant, and were so pumped up about it, that the girl has worn a tee shirt with an elephant on it.

“We also have one baby elephant,” says her husband goofily. I smile, Suresh’s face remains expressionless. They ask about tigers but those, are apparently kept in the off-limits area of the park.

At one point Suresh stops us, and walks ahead to check the coast is clear. I hear the familiar click of the camera behind me as they pose while we wait.

Finally he signals us that the coast is clear. As we catch up to where he’s standing, some 50 meters ahead of us, he points out the fresh elephant dung. A short while later we find wild dog stool as well.

The fact that they’re fresh means the animals are close.

“This is not a joke,” said Suresh. The wild animals could do anything. People had been injured on this walk before but thankfully nobody had died. This gave the name “nature walk” a much more sinister meaning than I had first imagined.

Suresh tells me how the guava trees were brought in by the British. However he speaks in a low mumble, difficult to understand whilst walking in a singular file. Tiny flowers dot the grass on either side of the track, interspersed with small plants growing wild.

We pass a few elephant mud bathing pools. Mud cools and protects the elephants skin. They also look fresh. We must be close.

Suddenly Suresh stops us again. We freeze, and he shushes the couple, who cannot help but whisper to each other at such inopportune moments.

They start taking photos again, much to Suresh’s annoyance. He creeps ahead and then returns and makes us walk back to where we came from.

Apparently there is a baby elephant sleeping in the wooded area we are just about the cross. Soon enough we hear the mother’s bellows from across the way.

Another group has come up behind us, and they too have stopped for fear of angering her.

We are pushed further back. The wife reprimands the husband for wearing white, apparently it is recommended to wear dark colours in the jungle so you do not stand out. I look at the other couple, who are foreign tourists, in their bright white tops and curse our luck.

Suresh asks us to be very quiet and very still while we wait. A few obligatory clicks are slipped in behind me, and I start to wonder, if this may turn Jurassic Park on us because of something silly like a camera click.

Finally Suresh motions us to come back the other way. The other guide does not follow. Both people in my party ask pleadingly if we can’t wait with the others.

I by this point, am quite relieved, because getting trampled by a wild and pissed off mama elephant, is not high on my list of priorities, vacation or no vacation.

We come into the jungle now, further and further into the depths. By one of the trees, the couple once again asks me to take a few photos.

I have not gotten over my brief spell of wilderness jitters, so I start envisioning the headlines

“Solo female traveller mauled by wild elephant while clicking photo.”

That would be such a cruelly ridiculous way to go, I wouldn’t blame people for snorting a little bit as they read it.

At one point Suresh looks at them and asks me “why do they do this?”

I smiled, and told him they were young.

“I’ve been doing this so many years, and this is the first time I see something like this.”

I smile again, torn between feeling indulgent towards them and agreeing with Suresh.

We spot wild monkeys, and though I don’t have the camera to capture them, I content myself with watching them play, swinging from branch to branch. These are black monkeys that do not prefer to interact with humans.

At this point the husband’s cellular phone rings. It sounds like a work call because he mentions something about selling another lot, before explaining he is on a nature walk, so that’s why he has to go. I chuckle inwards as I think of Suresh’s blood pressure rising.

Here, life and death intermingle comfortably – the latter isn’t a dark word to be hidden away and not spoken of. Death is a necessary part of a healthy ecosystem, and in turn supports new life. Every space, every nook and cranny, be it dead tree trunks or greying grass, each sprouts life.

Suresh showed me new leaves juxtaposed with old, small clumps of greenery emerging from tree trunks standing or fallen, spider webs stretched across blades of grass, vines swallowing the trees, a fig tree that grew over another wild (and dead) tree, wild rubber trees, leaves sprouting from the trunk of an orchid tree, and much more.

My reverie is interrupted by the husband’s cellular phone ringing again. This time it sounds like a female relative. After chatting with her, his wife takes the phone and starts a very animated conversation, where she uses some amount of baby talk.

The husband comes to his senses as he notices that we are traipsing downhill, and makes his wife get off the phone before she slides down all the way towards the raft. Suresh does not react, but I have the sense he is relieved that this is almost over.

However in spite of all the hullabaloo, as we head back to the raft, having missed spotting fauna of any interest, I’m not disappointed. I’ve gained something today.

What exactly that is, I cannot articulate. Words are simply not enough.

As I touch down in Cochin, I notice the tropical belt of trees that line the runway. As I descend towards the terminal, a small rather horizontal affair, the warmth hits my skins a nice change from the Delhi chill.

Today I’m going to Munnar, a hill station known for tea plantations and rustic beauty. I call the taxi driver who is booked to take me. He cannot understand my Hindi or my English by he tells me someone else, I believe the name was Sujit would pick me up. When I go outside a third Driver named Prateesh is waiting for me. But it’s fine and before I know it we are on our way.

I’ve slept at 1 am and woken up at 3, so during the course of the ride, my eyelids grow heavy, and I drift in and out of consciousness. Prateesh tells me about the people of Kerala, about how the roads are safer and have better drivers.

The tests are difficult, involving manoeuvring forward and backward in an “H” format as well as a proper road test. The police can’t be bribed and are strict on enforcing rules such as drinking and driving and speed limits. And sure enough the roads are quite civilized compared to what I’m used to, especially in Delhi and Gurgaon.

The Kalady district, one of the first we drive through outside Kochi, reminds me of Goa. It has markets of mom and pop shops, restaurants, hotels, punctuated by churches. The buildings are low-rise, and surrounded by clumps of trees growing wild, straining against the boundary walls.

The walls have faded but colourful advertisements painted, I see a disproportionately large stretch dedicated to one Pulkit TMT bars, followed by a brief spell of Ultratech Cement followed by what is presumably a rival bar manufacturer. Palm trees and coconut trees are visible everywhere.

In Kothamangalam, right before we enter the Idukki district we spot beautiful houses with open land peppered with rubber trees bound with bits of plastic, as well as many almond trees.

Once we enter, we stop at a place to breakfast though it is only my driver that wants food. I sit in the open air 100% veg restaurant watching giant dosas on steel thalis floating towards families and tourists. It’s an open-air place with green pillars and low red brick walls and a triangular roof adorned with rolled up blinds hanging all round.

Again at my drivers insistence, we stop at a waterfall for pictures. It is difficult to take photos because there is a massive crowd. He insists that I climb up and stand right next to the waterfall, which unfortunately is the moment that another family decides to do the same. I have a collection of terrible photos of me squinting awkwardly, and trying to separate myself from the other visitors.

It is when we stop at the spice plantation that things crescendo to new levels. My driver insists, but I hesitate, because anyone who knows the Delhi-Agra-Jaipur sightseeing circuit knows that driver suggested stops usually mean they’re getting a cut of the revenues you bring. I also remember it being suggested for another day. But he pushed me and finally I agree.

I pay 100 rupees (beware: most of the tourist ticket booths do not like to give change so change all your 2000 and 500 rupee notes beforehand). My guide is a humourless stout looking aunty clad in a pink kameez and a blue shalwar. She looks me up and down and asks if I’m alone. I say yes. When she asks if I’m married, I say no. I can tell she doesn’t think much of the current state of affairs.

We take a Jeep down to the spice plantation area. She starts with telling me that Kerala farms is the only real spice plantation offering real spices and Ayurveda treatments.

She speaks quickly in a difficult to understand monotone voice, and timbre, and moves from one plant to the other too quickly to enjoy the experience. All around me, guides are speaking animatedly but my lady sounds like a generating – low, humming type pitch with little space for breath between words.

Although some of what she tells me is dubious factually, much of it is interesting and probably trustworthy. I haven’t googled all of it, so I would cross check it against some google research from reputable sources.

She points out what she calls a rosemary or hashish plant (it has several names), which she says is where heroin comes from. I’m so tired, and my ears are so blocked, I don’t have the energy to question her on how an opiate and a cannabis-based thing, and an mediterranean herb could all come from the same tree. Perhaps they can? Perhaps I just don’t get it?

I’m hoping she expands on the heroin bit, but she decides to wax on for a disproportionately long time about what she calls nisoshiradi oil. She goes on at some length about how black my hair could be and how less hair fall could be mine imminently.

Other fun facts: the Neelakurinji plant blooms every 12 years, and the honey collected from bees who swarm them, is supposed to be amazing, and good for your skin.

I see elanji for varicose veins, rushed-ksham for cholesterol, a plant called manthaaram which allegedly eliminates the need for blood pressure medication for five years, savathari for ladies gynaecological problems from heavy bleeding and cramps to infertility. ahova for thyroids,

I see pepper and nutmeg, cloves, cardamom, and Kerala rice. There is a plant called kumizh for fat reduction which apparently eliminates the need for diet and exercise.

Half way through the tour she berates me for writing things down and not taking pictures. “How will you remember what it looks like?” she said. I stare at her and tell her that writing things down works better for me. She accepts this grudgingly, and moves on.

As we wander, and I try to decide whether to strain to hear her or question her on the things that don’t make sense to me, we cross pigeons with their tails fluffed up, in almost a peacock like fashion. When I ask her why that is, she explains that there are rabbits inside. I’m going to assume that was a language problem.

There is a giant emu, and guinea pigs for “English medicine testing”, something that makes me quite uncomfortable, and as we walk ducks and chickens roam around.

Finally, the tour is over, as she pushes to get past a group of middle-aged sari clad ladies, eager to get me into the store. While in the store, she follows me around pointing out things like “this is tea” and “this is coffee.” I smile politely, do one obligatory round of the store, and then make a hasty exit.

It’s not that I do not believe in the power of these spices or herbs to cure or relieve illness or discomfort, it’s just that years of living in the North have prepared me to recognise a tourist trap when I see one. The next day, when someone recommends a government shop in Cochin, I am relieved that I made the right decision.

I also decide never to take recommendations from my taxi driver again.

With each new year comes the opportunity for new perspectives and improvement, especially when you’re born close to the beginning of the year.My resolution for 2017 was quality over quantity – to have fewer people in my life but make them people who counted. That was easier said than done because when you’re in a new city and meeting people for the first time, it takes a while to get a sense of who they are.

But I did make progress in terms of weeding out negative influences, sometimes a tad later than I should but better late than never.

2017 was a tough year. Professionally I had huge learning curves, and having a work-life balance was a massive struggle. We had one cancelled wedding, one knee replacement surgery, one concussion and the demise of a close colleague all in the second half of the year.

I struggled with depression at times, anxiety at others, and sometimes everything was even.

Of course there were some good moments: getting selected, along with my father, to have my first fiction published in print, and for a very special project. I discovered Instagram poetry, and found a really great yoga studio and set of teachers. I re-cemented friendships that had previously been on thin ice and today they are stronger than ever. I finished the long drawn out process of doing up an unfurnished apartment. I did adult things like investments. Not all was bad.

If I had one resolution for 2018 it would be boundaries. I have a history of not enforcing them enough, and while I love the warmth and love that being in India gives me, often times people get under my skin and in my personal space.

I have a history of tolerating way too much disrespect. At the risk of sounding indulgent, or self-centred, which those who know me will understand that I’m not, I do not want to put up with games or things that put me in a compromising position, due to someone else’s selfishness or arrogance.

Whenever I relate these past incidents to people later they usually ask me why I let it go on. And truly they are right – the fact that I allow something makes me equally guilty.

An incident happened this morning, the details of which I will not get into. The point is I had two choices – accept something I was not okay with to be polite and not be demanding, or put my foot down and say that it was not acceptable to me.

The issue in question was respect for my time, which like everyone else, is limited and already bursting at the seams.

To my absolute delight I was able to stand up for myself and not feel guilty about it. This is something I’ve struggled with my entire life, and today, at almost 37, in a single instance I was able to conquer it.

One small step, but I feel like this represents a major shift for me.

If we talk about birthday presents (including the viral I feel coming on, and the jumble of cancelled and rescheduled plans), there is no better gift that the universe could have given me. And that, has already made this a special year.

]]>https://mirasaraf.com/2018/01/05/lessons-learned/feed/6msarafLetters to the Deadhttps://mirasaraf.com/2018/01/03/letters-to-the-dead/
https://mirasaraf.com/2018/01/03/letters-to-the-dead/#commentsWed, 03 Jan 2018 14:37:32 +0000http://mirasaraf.com/?p=600I thought that when I saw your funeral pyre, I’d finally believe that you’re gone. But as I watched the logs of wood turn black and white, start to crack and finally, core charred, collapse into dust – mingling with your ashes, as I watched the flames liquefying the air above, or the fresh logs being added up top, or the small concrete plot under the tin roof, it still did not feel true.

On the corner where your body lay, a number 5 was painted on the concrete base. I stared at that number five for a long time. I stared at the fire. I stared at the roof. I stared at the three empty plots beside you. I stared because I didn’t know what else to do, and anything was better than thinking about the fact that you were gone.

I can’t fathom it, and yet it’s real. I wondered if your soul infused the ash or whether it floated upwards in the smoke, I wondered if you were there, watching us, watch you.

Grief is a strange thing I find, it comes in waves. When it strikes, my insides seem to twist and contort, squeezing the tears from my eyes, clenching my jaw and forcing strange sounds out that I barely recognize as my own.

Then suddenly it stops and I feel this hollow emptiness, and numbness like nothing really exists anymore. And then I try to make sense of it, putting the pieces of the puzzle together and trying to rearrange them in my mind, for something to be different, for you to have survived.

And then you realize the futility of it all because I can’t rewind and recut this scene any other way, lines of tape strewn around my fingers, trembling for one more chance. And then once again my insides contort.

It is a cycle of tears and pain, punctuated by moments of cold rationality and emptiness. And no matter how much you cry, there is still more weeping inside you waiting to come out.

I fought the news I was hearing about you. Fought it all my heart. But no one ever wins these battles and belief or disbelief becomes irrelevant. Thoughts and feelings are so minute in comparison to the behemoth that is death.

It was a losing battle and I knew from the start, but I couldn’t not fight it. I couldn’t not pray and hope. Even today I want you to come back. Even today I want to hope that you’ll just walk in like nothing happened. Even today I want you to win the battle.

And no matter how hard I try, it appears that futile hope is the only thing that death can’t kill.